Perfect Target, page 2
She bristled at his tone. "I don't know that anything was worth it. I was put in situations I never should have been put in as a kid."
"Oh, please." He waved a dismissive hand. "No one poured drinks down your throat. Don't play the victim with me. I'm tired of child actors saying how difficult they had it, always forgetting how much more they had than other kids their age. Maybe you appreciate it more now that you're serving people food instead of being served yourself."
She sucked in a quick breath, angered by his sharp words. He had no idea what he was talking about. She might serve food, but she worked for herself. She called her own shots and lived how she wanted to live. It was good that she'd talked to him again. This conversation reminded her that Larry Brixton might be an attractive, well-liked celebrity and public figure, but he was still an arrogant asshole.
Getting to her feet, she said, "I should let you get back to work. I'm just going to see if this tray will fit on the sideboard."
"Sure, go ahead." He pushed his glasses back on and looked down at his paperwork.
She took the tray over to the sideboard. While pretending to measure the tray, she slipped a small listening device out of her pocket and pressed the sticky side against the underside of the table. Her hand shook with nerves as she did it, terrified that Larry would turn around and ask what she was doing. But as she finished, she glanced back at him, and realized he was not paying her any attention at all. His gaze was fixed on his phone, a frown crossing his lips as he read something on the screen.
"Dammit," he murmured. "What the hell?"
While he was distracted, she took the tray, then moved down the stairs and into the galley. She left the tray on the counter, then headed into the hallway. There were several elegant staterooms. When she entered the master, she was thrilled to see Larry's briefcase open on the desk. She hurried toward it. There wasn't much inside. He'd probably taken most of the files into the salon with him, but there were a couple of loose items, including receipts from a hotel and a restaurant and a piece of paper upon which had been scribbled several lines of numbers and letters. She pulled out her phone and took a couple of photos.
Then she took out another listening device and placed it on the underside of the desk. She opened and closed a few drawers in the dresser. There was nothing of interest. It didn't feel like the senator spent much time in here. She went into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet, but beyond the usual over-the-counter pain relievers, there was nothing to see.
Not wanting to push her luck, she returned to the galley. She put a couple of trays in the fridge and then walked up to the top deck. Pausing, she looked out at the harbor. A smaller boat moved out of a nearby slip with music playing. Two bikini-clad girls posed for selfies by the rail, while two guys stood by the wheel, wearing board shorts and drinking beer. She knew that scene. The music, the photos, the alcohol. Her stomach turned as memories swamped her once more. But she didn't want to remember anything. So she turned and walked down the gangway.
Larry's security guy was sitting on a bench under a tree, probably trying to find some cool shade on this hot day. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at his phone. At the sound of her steps, he lifted his head, and gave her a nod.
"Have a good day," she said cheerfully.
"Too hot for that," he returned.
Despite his words, he made no effort to return to the air-conditioned yacht. Clearly, the cigarette took precedence over his heat concerns. She walked through the gate and down the dock, feeling her relief grow with each step. She'd done what she needed to do. Now, she just hoped it would work, and they'd get the information that they desperately needed.
She'd almost reached her van when an enormous blast threw her off her feet. She landed on her knees, her ears ringing, her heart pounding, shocked and confused. Then she covered her head as a raining heat of debris fell all around her. When it finally stopped, she looked toward the harbor, seeing flames and smoke where the majestic yacht had once been. My Serenity was now engulfed in flames.
She stared at the scene in disbelief. Through her echoing brain, she heard screams. People were running toward the fire. Others were running away. But she couldn't move.
The truth had frozen her in place. The yacht had exploded. Larry Brixton had been on board.
Oh, God! What had just happened?
She coughed as thick smoke swept over the area. And once more she slid back in time, to another yacht, another fire.
This time was different. She hadn't had to jump overboard. She wasn't in the water. She wasn't freezing. She wasn't nineteen and terrified.
But her pulse was racing so fast she couldn't catch her breath. She tried to tell herself the explosion had nothing to do with her, with the bugs she'd planted, with Brixton's past. But it didn't feel that way. It didn't feel that way at all.
Jumping to her feet, she ran toward her van. She jumped inside and locked the door. Then she turned on the engine and drove out of the lot, past the responding police and fire trucks. She had to get away. She couldn't talk to anyone, especially not to the police.
Chapter Two
"Didn't think I'd be back here again," Agent Beck Murray muttered as he drove toward the Port of Los Angeles with his good friend and boss, Agent Flynn MacKenzie, riding shotgun.
"You know what I've learned in this job?" Flynn asked.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
Flynn grinned. "At some point, our pasts always come back into play."
"Maybe because we get called back to the past," he returned. "You said Damon asked for me specifically."
"That's true," Flynn admitted. "He wants our team on the case, but he specifically wants you because of your experience with the port police."
He frowned, thinking his experience might be more of a hindrance than a help. After being medically discharged from the Army at twenty-one, he'd gone into law enforcement and had joined the port police when he was twenty-four years old. He'd spent three years patrolling this harbor and the surrounding area and had become an expert on smuggling and trafficking. But during that time, he'd also had several run-ins with the brass that had eventually led him to make another change. After a few years, he'd moved on to the FBI, where he'd been working for the past six years.
He'd met Flynn when they were trainees at Quantico and while their paths had diverged for several years, they'd reunited to work together in a specialized unit that Flynn had created and managed. Their task force worked undercover operations most of the time, but they also worked on cases with the LA Field Office run by another one of his former classmates, Damon Wolfe, and this would be one of those cases.
"Do you still have friends at the port?" Flynn asked.
"One or two. But I also have some enemies. I left the port police because I couldn't stay in my lane," he said, irritated by the memory. "I asked too many questions. I had too many suspicions that were above my pay grade."
"Well, now you'll be in charge, and you need to make sure no one gets in our way."
"I can do that. What do we know so far about the explosion?"
"An incendiary device went off just after two p.m. It's still too early for details, but it was most likely placed in one of the staterooms. The senator's body was not intact, but we do have a positive ID."
"Hell of a way to go," he muttered.
"At least it was fast. I'm sure he didn't know what hit him."
"Are we thinking this is part of a bigger plot?"
"Don't have enough information yet," Flynn replied.
He brought the vehicle to a stop at a police checkpoint. After flashing his badge, he drove into the lot and parked. They got out of his SUV and walked through what was a very busy, chaotic, and still smoky scene. The area was swarming with firefighters, police, FBI, and other agency officials. Helicopters hovered overhead, streaming live shots of the smoldering remains of the luxury yacht.
The scene was far too familiar. "I really am going back in time," he muttered. "Different yacht, worse outcome, but still oddly similar."
Flynn gave him a quick, curious look. "What are you talking about?"
"Seven years ago, I responded to a yacht fire here. Some passengers panicked and jumped overboard. I fished one of them out of the water."
"Think there's a connection?"
"Doubtful. It wasn't a bomb, just a candle knocked over during a party. That's what the official report said, but I wasn't sure that explanation made sense, and my questions weren't appreciated."
"You can be annoying with your suspicious nature and endless questions," Flynn said with a laugh. "But that makes you an excellent agent. You don't take anything at face value."
"There's almost always a story behind the story."
"It looks like our next story will be about Senator Larry Brixton." Flynn paused. “There's Damon."
Beck's gaze moved to the man with the dark hair and blue eyes. Damon Wolfe wore a gray suit and a very stressed expression. Damon rarely went into the field these days, but clearly the murder of a US senator had brought all the top officials out.
His stomach turned over as he realized the explosion had also brought out his old nemesis, Detective Mike Spalding of the port police, a stocky, square man, who'd lost a little hair and gained a few extra pounds in the years since he'd seen him. In his opinion, Spalding had been a lazy detective, and they'd had several run-ins, including the previous yacht fire.
As they joined the two men, he gave Spalding a curt nod. "Detective Spalding."
"Agent Murray," Spalding replied, giving him a hard look. "It's been a minute."
"Yes," he agreed. "I didn't realize you were still working for the port."
"Twenty-four years now. I know everything that goes on down here."
"Do you know who blew up the yacht?" he challenged.
Spalding's gaze narrowed. "I can probably find out before you can."
"There won't be a race," Damon interrupted. "We'll be taking the lead, as I mentioned, detective. You'll be working with Agent Murray, and we appreciate your cooperation."
"Always happy to help the Feds," Spalding drawled. Then he walked away to join a group of officers.
"He might be a problem," Damon said.
"I can handle him," Beck replied. "What do we know?"
"There were at least three people besides the senator, who were on the yacht today," Damon replied. "But only the senator was on board when the explosion occurred."
"The senator was completely alone?" he asked in surprise. "Where was his security team? The crew?"
"He had one bodyguard with him—Jay Conroy of Fox Security Systems. Mr. Conroy was having a smoke on the dock when the bomb went off. He had some lacerations from falling debris. He's at the hospital getting stitches. He told the first responders that the senator made a last-minute decision to go to the yacht early to work. Everything seemed in order, but the guard didn't do a complete sweep of the boat."
"Okay. Who else? You said there were two other people on the yacht."
"The chief steward, Robert Baron, arrived at one thirty to let in the caterer, Piper Nolan, just before two. She boarded the yacht carrying a large, refrigerated container in her arms."
"Wait! What?" he asked in surprise, the name echoing in his head. "Piper Nolan, as in the actress who played Larry Brixton's daughter on the television show, The Carmichaels?"
"Yes. Mr. Conroy told us that Ms. Nolan and the senator had a conversation in the salon," Damon said. "The senator told him to take a smoke break while they were chatting, which he did. The caterer left about fifteen minutes later. The bomb went off minutes after her exit."
"Lucky or convenient?" Flynn interjected.
"Who knows, but the security guard said they were friendly," Damon replied.
"Where is Ms. Nolan?" he asked. "Has she been questioned?"
"No. She left the scene before the police arrived. I sent an agent to her bakery and to her house, but she wasn't at either location."
"We need to find her. I can't believe she's a caterer now," he mused, an odd mix of emotions running through him. "She was really famous for a long time. My younger brother watched that show every Friday night for ten years and then millions of times in reruns."
"She played Katie Carmichael, didn't she?" Flynn asked.
"Yes. She grew up on that show. One minute she was a kid, and then she was a teen."
"A smoking hot teen, as I recall," Flynn said.
"Well, now she runs a small bakery in Santa Monica," Damon said. "She lives in a condo a few blocks away. I'll text you the info."
Beck nodded, as Piper's face ran through his head, not the celebrity images that had played across the media for more than a decade, but a picture he'd carried in his mind for a long time—a freezing, wet, terrified girl, who'd disappeared before he could help her at this same port seven years ago. He'd been stunned when he'd realized who he'd pulled out of the sea. He'd wanted to help her, but he hadn't had the chance. He might have that chance now, or he might have to arrest her for blowing up a yacht and killing her former costar. That thought seemed inconceivable. She wasn't a murderer or a terrorist, was she?
"How do you want to divide this up, Damon?" Flynn asked, drawing Beck's attention to the situation at hand.
"I'd like your team to take the lead," Damon replied. "Senator Brixton had a problem with two of my agents. I didn't hear about it until today, but the senator's office apparently reported several death threats that they don't believe were thoroughly investigated. I need to find out what happened, but what I don't want is a conflict of interest. Your unit can run with the ball. We'll provide backup support."
"Who were the agents?" Beck asked curiously.
"Garrett Watkins, who has twenty-two years under his belt, and Drea James, who was assigned to our office nine months ago. I don't know Agent James, but Agent Watkins has had nothing but solid reviews for years. However, I need to dig a little deeper into exactly what was threatened and what was done."
"Those threats could be critical," Flynn said.
"I'll make sure your team has copies of the files," Damon said. "I'm not under the illusion that this case will be easy to solve, but we need to hurry. We don't know if this was a personal attack or a harbinger of more explosions to come."
"Where's the senator's team?" Flynn asked.
"I spoke to his chief of staff, Mark Dennison," Damon replied. "He's agreed to meet you at six o'clock tonight at the senator's house in Beverly Hills. Brixton's son, Joel, who is his policy advisor, will also be there, as well as other members of the staff. They're all very distraught, of course." Damon paused, pointing to a group of a half-dozen people who were talking to an officer from the port police. "The yacht crew, including the steward, Robert Baron, is there if you want to speak to him directly."
"I do," Beck said. "And then I'll track down Piper Nolan."
Flynn smiled. "Figured you'd want to handle her."
He ignored the knowing gleam in Flynn's eyes. "She is a key witness."
"Right. While you do that, I'll ride with Damon, see if I can talk to the agents who investigated the death threats. Keep me posted, Beck."
"Will do."
As Damon and Flynn left, he walked over to the crew, drawing Robert Baron to the side. The steward looked pale and shaken. "I already told the officer everything I know," he said in a clipped British accent.
"I understand, but I'll need you to tell me your story, too. You met with the caterer, Piper Nolan?"
"Yes. She arrived at one thirty-five. She was five minutes late. I had asked her to come at three when the rest of the crew would be there, but she insisted that was the only time she had open. I led her onto the yacht, showed her the galley, the trays for her to use, and then I left to run an errand. When I was driving back to the port, I saw the smoke. I couldn't believe it."
"Where was your errand?"
Robert cleared his throat. "I went to the drugstore to pick up a few personal items."
"Do you have a receipt?"
"Uh, I didn't take a receipt."
"What items did you purchase? Are they in your car?"
"Why are you asking me about my errand?" Baron demanded. "Am I under suspicion?"
"You were one of only a handful of people on the yacht today. Every single one of you is under suspicion."
"I had nothing to do with this."
"Are the items you purchased in your car?"
Robert's lips tightened. "No. I dropped them off at my apartment before I came back here. This is absurd. I did nothing wrong."
"How well did you know the senator?"
"I've met him several times. I've worked a couple of his parties, but we don't have a relationship beyond that."
"I understand the senator arrived earlier than expected."
"Yes, I was surprised to find him on the yacht when I arrived."
"What time was that?"
"It was around 1:20. He wasn't particularly thrilled to see me, either. I told him I had one delivery to attend to, and that he wouldn't be disturbed."
"Was he concerned that there would soon be a delivery from a person he used to work with?"
Robert looked at him in confusion. "I don't understand. I told him the dessert caterer would arrive shortly. I didn't know they worked together."
"You didn't know that the caterer was an actress who worked on the senator's very popular show, The Carmichaels?"
"I never saw the show, and I didn't know that. She didn’t look like an actress, and she didn't mention that she knew the senator."
"Did she talk to Senator Brixton?"
"You'd have to ask her that. I told her to stay out of the salon, that Senator Brixton did not wish to be disturbed, but I have no idea what went on after I left the yacht. I wish I could help you, but I can't."
"How long were you on the boat before the caterer arrived?"
"Fifteen minutes."
